Frozen winter
by planet p
Summary: AU; do you ever ask yourself why? Why any of it? Other people ask all the time. You must ask yourself sometimes. Yeah, she does, too. Or maybe she was only answering the how, and not why. Why did there need to be a why? Emily/Lyle


**Frozen winter** by planet p

**Disclaimer** I don't own _the Pretender_ or any of its characters.

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_AU; do you ever ask yourself why? Why any of it? Other people ask all the time. You must ask yourself sometimes. Yeah, she does, too. Or maybe she was only answering the how, and not why. Why did there need to be a 'why'? Emily/Lyle_

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The cold was unbearable. She thought of the old days, of the frozen winters. But, no, the air wasn't the same; not the same.

She longed for warm arms, the pressure of their embrace, but not the right person, not this person: she shouldn't have longed for this person.

Why not? She wanted to yell those words. Quite possibly it was that she loved him. Love was silly, sometimes. A dolt. Not a jot of sense.

She disputed with no-one: there was sense to this, most likely a nonsense sense, but a sense nonetheless. Strange as it was, she'd never felt the sentiment untruthful. Maybe, a little, she'd taken it for granted. She knew that there had been others for him, even now, but once, too, there had been her. Maybe even it had been years, just her for years. How many years? The years flew past her eyes again, in her mind; like turning the pages of a history book: almost four years, three-and-a-half years, possibly. And all those years: her. It had been her.

She tried to think of something else, afterwards, but she began to panic. What if there had been others, even then: at work. It wasn't worry, it was panic: she loved him! What if she had been wrong? What if there wasn't a thing at all to love about him, not a single thing? What would those three-and-a-half years have been then? What had she been? A crazy girl! Disillusioned by a crazy boy? Strung along? No! That can't have been right! She'd been the one doing all the lying! She'd been the one holding the string! It can't have been him! Not him, too! The company: yes, she'd known all along of the company's intentions: the company's _real_ reasons. But not her little crazy boy! She refused to believe it.

_It's his nature_, she told herself; _he really can't help it: why should he try? It doesn't hurt _him_. Very possibly, I wouldn't, either. I'd let it be: it makes me happy. Who else is there to worry about but me? Why should I worry about someone else when no-one worries about me? I've got to be the one looking out for myself; I can't afford to cloud the issue. It's just me, the only one._ That was how he thought, she told herself.

But it was a lie: she didn't believe it. Couldn't it be that he loved her, too? Why not?

But all of those other girls. Those poor girls. Did she believe that? All of it, or only how much of it? Any of it? Could she tell herself, _No, I don't_? Would those poor girls understand? Would anyone understand (if they knew)? Did she really understand? Was it only that she was desperately grasping at the past because without a past there'd be nothing to say her future, her _now_, meant anything at all? Because she'd have to start all over again: right from the start! You're 13 again – start over!

A whine rose in her throat, the awful feeling, without sound: the tightening of muscles. Her throat went dry. The two didn't go together: she coughed awfully. _I love him,_ she thought, _it can't just be a lie to cover my own backside! Give me some more credit than that! I know things got hard at times, but it's _not_ true: he wasn't just the least unkind thing in my damaged, hurt mind – I won't believe it!_

Her eyes watered from coughing so hard. _Even if he doesn't love me, I love him,_ she thought. _I'm an idiot, I'm a fool – I don't care. Look at us, both of us mad, now. I don't even care. I'm not hurting anyone: I don't care!_

Her mind rebelled: stupid girl with her stupid heart, you hurt them with your lie, all of those poor girls he's hurt. You hurt them all over again. She longed to scream; her throat was too sore for that: It isn't true! I know! I know! He never hurt any of those girls. I don't know how, but it's true! Not one of them! It's something else that's going on, that's all.

She thought, then, of all that he'd told her – actually told her – and all that he hadn't. He'd grown up in Nebraska, for quite some time until his late teens. (This, he hadn't told her exactly, but she'd heard of it and she'd believed it. The country, he'd said, and that was all. He'd had a country accent: Nebraska seemed to fit.) He worked in computing, programming; he had a good head for numbers. She'd supposed he was good at other things, too. He was a possessor, after all. It was likely that he was a Pretender. (It wouldn't just be numbers and computers, it would be other things, too.) Other things were languages, as it turned out; music, not so bad with mechanical workings: motors, as a boy. He'd had a part-time job, after school; he hadn't stayed there long, it was his condition. He had a lot of those.

Later, things changed. There was their daughter to factor into the equation. No matter how she tried to escape it, that child was half of him. (Certainly, _she_ wasn't an Empath; there was no history of it in her family, her brothers – missing, both of them – were Pretenders. Where had it come from? It can only have come from his side, or perhaps it was spontaneous.) But she stopped thinking that: it was gradual, it didn't happen over night, but one day, she found that she'd just stopped thinking it. Might have had her best friend's eyes, but things were different in this one: always had been, always would be, couldn't change it now, couldn't reset it. Best friend had been a Pretender, had the Inner Sense – nope! She'd struck all of these from her list: just one thing, he was just one thing, same as the kid – an Empath.

Empaths could Pretend, too. All of the sicknesses: there, now, how neat it all adds up. Perfect.

She'd been so sure of it then, as a frightened girl. Had she factored wrong? She'd known nothing of the poor girls then. She can't be blamed for not knowing, can she? But, she couldn't help thinking: it felt that way. Like she was being blamed now, being punished for her stupidity. You can't love him, you're not allowed: this is why.

_But I do!_ she thought angrily. How could she be expected to suddenly switch off something that she felt! It didn't matter how many years that she'd felt it – it was a _real_ feeling!

_He wouldn't have hurt those girls_, she justified it, now. _He can't have. Not being what he is. It has to be something else. Maybe one day he'll tell me, but I don't expect it to be right now. Maybe he won't, not ever. It wouldn't be safe, in honesty. I understand._

It struck her then, that that was a problem of hers. She was understanding. She _wanted_ to be understanding. Why not? She loved him. (She'd convinced herself of it.) _There was no convincing needed,_ she thought angrily, again. _I can feel it! How can I be making that up? I don't care what you say – I am not making it up!_ She felt as though she was going to start coughing again; she found her puffer and placed it in her lap, ready for if she needed it.

_Silly,_ she thought, _you're making yourself sick with all of those stupid arguments, all of these stupid thoughts._ But, as well, she knew they were demanded: she had to have these arguments because she cared, because she was able to think these things and see that there were things that hadn't been explained and ask why. _But for what?_ she wondered. _Well, what if I just chalked it up to belief? Would it be permissible? It must be, then._

Well, she could just believe that he hadn't hurt those girls. The girls hadn't been a part of his job, so they were different to the others; she understood why the others had had to be killed: she'd done the same (but all that had been before they'd met). She hadn't felt good about it, but she'd done it. In the back of her mind, a little part of her said, no, it was different. This man would have killed her best friend if she hadn't acted, if she hadn't killed him first. (She didn't tell it, no, I see that, I see your argument: but it wasn't the man who'd been sent to kill us, it had been us who'd been sent to kill him.) She didn't need to say so, she knew it.

She'd hurt other people, too. She couldn't help wondering if drawing a comparison from that was taking the easy way out. I can understand because I've been there, too. I can understand, and I can still care – I can still love him. Was that a thing that other people would be able to grasp and say, _Yes, we're starting to get it, now_?

_Who are you trying to justify this to?_ she thought suddenly. _It isn't about them, it's about you._ But, in the end, really, it was about them, too. _Because we all live together_, she thought, _in this world. Oh, rubbish, they haven't lived my life! They can't tell me who to love and who to discard!_

_Is it Jarod? Is it because, now that Jarod's come back – now that Kyle's never coming back – you finally have the old family back, the one you'd never really had in the first place, and the other family, the family you'd so loved as a girl, really doesn't count anymore?_ The thought made her uncomfortable, made her want to cry. Was that fair? It didn't matter, she decided, they still counted; they'd always still count. And why not? Sydney still counted to Jarod. Why couldn't she care about someone else?

She squeezed her puffer tightly in her hand, _Oh, bugger it – just stop me! He's crazy, and I _care_, but maybe that will never change; it doesn't mean I don't still love him. That's it, that's all I have to say on the matter. Why should I say any more?_

_Silly girl,_ she thought, _why do you try to make it all so neat? Life isn't neat? Are you afraid, afraid someone else would find out? What if they did? Would you take it all back then?_

_No,_ she thought, _I wouldn't. I love him._

_I miss him._

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**Awful, I know. (Written a few weeks ago; I try to give reasons to things when that's probably the wrong approach.) Thanks for reading.**


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